Blind Intention

By Linda Van Meter

When Laura met Scott, they quickly became high school sweethearts. They looked forward to a life filled with happiness, but their dreams darkened when Scott lost his eyesight.

Eager to regroup, the couple moves back to Scotts hometown in Carter, Texas. Its just like dozens of other small towns in that part of the state, with an oil company controlling its school systems, police department, and politics.

Not long after they arrive, however, Scotts father, Jack, is found shot dead in his car. The authorities rule it a suicide, and Scott blames himself for his fathers death. He thinks that his blindness must have pushed him over the edge.

With her marriage getting worse by the day, Laura begins to have doubts about her father-in-laws suicide. She knows that Jack Sellers was a man who loved himself too much to take his own life. When she questions the deputy sheriff and discovers that he, too, has doubts about the death, she sets out on a mission to catch a killer.

Now, Lauras marriage and her life depend on finding a killer that few people believe exists in the small town of Carter. A Blind Intention will help catch Jack Sellers' killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 6, 2009
• ISBN: 9781440123450

Linda Van Meter

Linda Van Meter operated a bookkeeping business and owned a small boutique before going on to work for a major oil company for a number of years. She is the mother of two sons, two daughters. Linda has recently moved back to her home in Texas after spending some time in Arizona and Alaska. Besides her love of writing, Linda makes quilts for her family and friends.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

It was daybreak on the outskirts of the small West Texas town of Carter. Scattered among the mesquites, the black silhouettes of the pump jacks moved slowly up and down. They creaked and groaned as they pulled raw crude oil from the rocky ground. The limbs on the mesquite bushes were still bare, a sure sign that winter was still hanging on.

The white 1971 Ford LTD was sitting on the side of the dirt road with the engine still running. Inside the car, a country music song blared on the radio. Whenever Jack Sellers was alone in his company car, he would crank the volume up. He played it loud only when he was by himself, because he didn’t want anyone to know he was losing his hearing. Not that it mattered now; Jack’s left ear, most of his brain, and a large amount of blood were spattered all over the driver’s side of the vehicle.

When the 38-caliber bullet had exited Jack Sellers’ skull, it had taken half his head with it. His weather-worn hand was limp on the tan vinyl seat next to his gun. What was left of his curly salt-and-pepper hair, thinning but always meticulously parted in the middle, was matted with blood. There was a look of surprise in his one remaining blue eye, and his body was slumped down against the car door.

Gullivar Oil Company was one of the top seven major oil com-panies in the country, and the largest one in Carter County. The adobe-style field office sat about three miles east of Carter on the edge of a rich oil field. Since the company was the main financial support of the small community, it played a large part in the town’s schools, politics, and law enforcement. Jack Sellers, the senior production supervisor for Gullivar Oil Company, was a main player in Carter’s politics.

Jack had enjoyed the respect and admiration that went along with his position. It had been almost six months since Sam Masters had been transferred in from Hobbs, New Mexico, and placed in the job just under Jack. He was eleven years younger, with an engineering degree. Jack was convinced that Sam was being groomed for his job.

To make matters worse, Sam stood over six feet tall. This just added to Jack’s resentment, since Jack stood barely five feet seven inches tall. He had come from a poor family and had barely finished high school, and it had taken him a long time to work his way up the company ladder.

Convinced that the tall, college-educated bastard was after his job, Jack had become obsessed. Jack had always been the first to arrive at the office every morning, but a couple of times Sam beat him there. Jack had become more determined to get there first, even if it meant spending the night in his office. Arriving early gave him time to catch up on his paperwork and line out the contractors on their jobs for the day. With everything under control by 7:30 each morning, Jack was free to go to breakfast with one of the many contractors competing for the business he might throw their way. Usually, the lucky contractor was Ken Brantley. Most everyone in town knew that Jack Sellers and Ken Brantley were tight. A few people suspected that Ken paid for the privilege of being Jack’s best buddy.

But, on this morning, there would be no breakfast at Betty’s Café, no flirting with the new waitress with the big boobs, no planning the next fishing trip to Mexico, at least not for Jack Sellers.

CHAPTER 2

Postponing the inevitable, Sam Masters lay in his warm bed, listening to the howling March wind long enough to hit the snooze button on his alarm clock twice and thinking how miserably cold the wind sounded. His wife, Shirley, kept nudging him until he finally sat up on the side of the bed, grumbling.

It’s too damn cold to go to work. Let old Jack Sellers bust his ass getting there first. I am not playing his stupid-ass game.

Shirley just smiled, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

The biting wind met Sam as he stepped outside to the carport. It took a few minutes for the heater in his company car to kick in. He sipped his cup of coffee while he waited for the car to warm up. Five minutes later, he drove across the cattle guard on the familiar caliche road toward the office when he spotted Jack’s company car pulled over on the side of the road.

For just a moment, Sam was tempted to drive right on by and beat the smart-ass to the office, just to aggravate the sawed-off little runt. But, as he got closer to Jack’s car, he knew something wasn’t right. He could see the car’s exhaust as it hit the cold air, so it probably wasn’t car trouble.

Sam couldn’t see anyone in the car, but he decided to stop and see what was going on anyway. He parked behind Jack’s car, and as he walked up to the car, he spotted a huge amount of blood splattered all over the driver’s window, and then he saw what was left of Jack’s head.

Sam froze for a few seconds. He felt his heart banging in his chest as he slowly backed away. When he got back to his car, he thought he was going to throw up. His hand trembled as he keyed the mike on the two-way radio.

This is STB-40 calling STB Base Station. Come in, anybody! He waited a few seconds, and realized it was too early for anyone at the office to answer his call. He decided to try and reach Jack’s favorite contractor, Ken Brantley, on the CB radio. Ken was usually out early.

This is Sam the man, calling Ken B. Come on in, Ken.

Ken Brantley answered almost immediately. You’re out pretty early this morning, Sam. What’s up? Do you have a job for me?

What is your location Ken? Sam asked.

I’m just outside your big city. Why? What’s the problem?

After a short pause, Sam’s voice came back over the CB. Ken, I need you to swing by the sheriff’s house and have him get out here right now. I’m about a half-mile past cattle guard number eight on Ranch Road.

For God’s sake, Sam, what is wrong?

I can’t really say over the two-way, Ken, just get Big John out here as quickly as you can, okay?

Okay, I’m on my way. Hang on, buddy.

It seemed a lot longer than fifteen minutes, but finally Sam spotted the sheriff’s car coming up the road, with Ken’s blue and silver Silverado pickup right behind it and a cloud of dust rolling in behind them.

Thank God, Sam muttered as he stepped out of his car.

John Bates had been the sheriff of Carter for the last twelve years. Everyone in the small West Texas town knew Big John Bates. He was a huge man, standing 6'3" and weighing well over two hundred pounds, with a beer belly that hung over a big silver Western belt buckle. He was rarely seen not wearing his white Stetson hat. He had big ears, a big nose, and intense, penetrating black eyes.

Sam and Ken stood back watching as Big John walked around to the passenger side of Jack’s car, which was still running. Big John opened the door. Nancy Sinatra was belting out These Boots Were Made for Walking.

Jack always liked that song, Ken said. Do you think he’s dead, Sam?

It sure as hell looked that way. I thought I was going to throw up. I’ve never seen anything like that before.

Damn it all! Jack and I were leaving on a fishing trip this afternoon, Ken said. The two men watched as the sheriff stuck his head into the passenger side of Jack’s car.

Big John reached into the window and over the open glove compartment and switched off the blaring radio. A 38-caliber pistol lay on the seat next to Jack’s body. Blood was spattered all over the seat, the window, the windshield. It was as bad as anything Big John had ever seen. The bullet had taken off a portion of the top of Jack’s head. Big John’s immediate impression was that Jack had placed the barrel of the 38 to his temple and pulled the trigger.

Backing out of the car, Big John stood up and turned to the men behind him. Looks like suicide. The coroner should be here any time now. I rousted him out of his bed before I started out here. We are going to need an ambulance too.

Ken walked to the side of the road, stood there a minute, and then kicked a rock with his boot. Damn it to hell. Why would he do this? I just don’t understand it.

Sam and Big John looked at each other, not knowing what to say. Seeing his chance to get away, Sam said, If you want me to, I can call for an ambulance from the office.

That’s a good idea. I will be by to take your statement later on.

Yeah, okay then, I’ll see you later. Sam got back into his warm car and waited on Ken to move his truck so he could pull back onto the road. When Sam drove past Jack’s car, he couldn’t keep from thinking about what a bad way that would be to check out. Poor bastard, he said to himself as he drove on toward the office, leaving Big John and Ken standing beside the road.

Sure is cold for March, Ken said.

Is for a fact, replied Big John.

Who is going to tell Jack’s family?

I will. It’s the hardest part of my job, especially when it’s a suicide.

Are you convinced he killed himself?

Sure looks that way to me, Big John replied as he shook his head. It’s kind of surprising, though. I always figured if old Jack didn’t die of natural causes, it would be because some pissed-off husband caught up with him. I never could figure out how Martha put up with his screwing around. He must have been pretty good at keeping it from her.

Yeah, either that or she just didn’t want anyone to know that she knew. Lord knows most everyone else around Carter knew it.

Yeah, I suppose so, Ken said.

Hell, I know so. It’s a damn good thing he never came sniffing around my Lou Ann, or I would’ve saved him a bullet.

It could have been about his kid. That boy going blind was really eating on him. I thought he was handling it better than this, though. Hell, we were supposed to leave this afternoon on a five-day fishing trip down on the Rio Grande. Yesterday, he was telling me how much he was looking forward to going.

I’m sorry, Ken; I guess we never know what goes on in someone else’s head, even close friends.

I suppose that’s true, John. Well, guess I’ll go check on my crews if you don’t need me for anything else here. It sounds like the ambulance is headed our way.

"No, you go on to work. I appreciate you coming to get me this morning. The coroner should be here in a few minutes.

Okay, see you later then. Ken climbed into his pickup and drove toward Gullivar Oil Company’s office to see if Sam had any work for his crews that day. With Jack gone, Sam would be in charge.

CHAPTER 3

Martha Sellers woke to the sound of the doorbell. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table: 7:00 a.m. Jack must’ve managed to get up and leave for work without her hearing him. Most mornings, the first thing she heard was the squeak of the kitchen door as he pulled it shut and then the sound of his company car starting up. She must have been sleeping soundly this morning.

She slipped on her red fuzzy slippers and grabbed her red silk robe from the foot of the bed. The doorbell rang again.

I’m coming; I’m coming, she mumbled, still groggy from the sleeping pill she’d taken the night before. When she opened the door, the sheriff’s large frame filled her doorway, and she could tell by the look on his face the news wasn’t good. "John, what in the world are you doing out this early? What is it?

May I come in, Martha; it’s pretty cold out here.

Her eyes widened as she unlatched the screen door. Yes, of course, John, I’m sorry. You must be freezing out there in the cold. Come on in.

Big John took off his Stetson and still had to duck to get through the door.

Jack always plugs in the coffeepot for me before he leaves for work, Martha said as she led the way down the hall to a large room that served as the kitchen and the den. She nodded toward the round maple table next to a window. Do you take your coffee black, John, or do you use sugar or cream? she asked in a festive tone, as if he dropped by every morning.

Martha, come and sit down. I’ll get the coffee in a minute. We need to talk. He wished he were anywhere else doing almost anything else at that moment. God, he hated this part of his job.

It is about Jack, isn’t it? she asked in a whisper.

Yes, Martha, I’m afraid he’s gone.

Gone? Gone where? she asked, her eyes widening with fear.

It looks like he took his own life, Martha. Did he keep a pistol in his glove compartment?

He never mentioned it to me, but he might have. I don’t know. Jack has several guns, but he wouldn’t do that. He just wouldn’t do that. She started to sob.

I’ll get you some coffee, Martha. He’d never learned how to handle a crying woman. It gave him such a helpless feeling. He poured two cups of coffee and sat down at the table with her. He sipped quietly on the hot coffee, giving her time to calm down.

He glanced around the large room. Over in the corner sat a well-worn brown leather recliner with a TV tray sitting next to it, with a large ash tray running over with cigarette butts, three empty beer cans, a highball glass, and two issues of Reader’s Digest. Newspapers were scattered around the chair. It would have been impossible to cram another beer can into the small waste basket underneath the TV tray. Jack Sellers had been a slob, at least when he was at home. Glancing around the room, Big John noticed that in contrast, the rest of the room was neat and clean.

I don’t know how I’m going to tell Scott this, Martha said as her crying subsided. He worships his father. I’m afraid he will blame himself.

I can tell him if you want me to, Martha. Scott and Laura live right across the street, don’t they? John glanced at the window next to the table, noticing that a clothespin held two slats of the Venetian blinds together, creating a peephole with a convenient view of Scott and Laura’s house. Not too much slipped by Sheriff Bates.

Yes they do, Martha said, but I’ll tell them. I wouldn’t want Scott to hear it from anyone else. She spooned sugar into her coffee and shook her head. I just don’t understand how Jack could have been so selfish.

"Do you need me to call anyone else for you, Martha?

No, I’ll be okay, she said, stirring her coffee.

John couldn’t help wondering if she had known what everyone else in Carter knew about her husband: Jack Sellers was a womanizer and had been cheating on Martha for years. John felt sorry for the overweight woman across the table from him. Her red eyes matched the red silk pajamas and robe she was wearing. He sat quietly sipping his coffee, giving her more time to absorb what was happening.

This isn’t going to help Scott’s depression one bit, she said. What a damn selfish thing to do! His only son trying to adjust to going blind, and all Jack could ever think about was himself. If he wasn’t already dead, I could almost kill him myself, she said, anger replacing her grief.

I’ll go with you to tell Scott and Laura if that will make it any easier, he offered.

No, John, that’s kind of you, but I’ll tell him.

Something about her tone told him she would be okay, so he stood up and retrieved his Stetson from the back of a chair. Okay, Martha, but will you call me or Lou Ann if you need anything?

I will. I know this part of your job must be very hard.

Yes, ma’am, it is. I’ll let myself out.

Okay, John, thank you.

Driving to his office, John remembered that Martha Sellers had been a real looker about ten years back, a slim and curvy brunette. She had really let herself go; now she wasn’t just overweight, she was fat. Last year at Carter’s homecoming football game, John’s wife, Lou Ann, had commented